


natural (will the stars align?)

by mrsinister



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Angst, Fire and Ice, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Superpowers, Torture, Violence, death isn't very graphic but it still is a death, evil government and chosen one prophecies, mutants are people with super powers and locals dont like it, patrick doesn't approve, relationships won't be overpowering but they're there bc i'm a hopeless romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-04 12:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsinister/pseuds/mrsinister
Summary: The year is 2019, and the world has been hit with an epidemic known as the Mutant Era. People who look and sound and seem just like humans are being hit with life-changing sicknesses: Superpowers. And the rest of the world isn't happy about it.These mutants are forced to run and hide for their lives, and one group of eight is quickly turned to three when their hide-out gets ransacked by police and half of the group is taken. But with a newfound prophecy being forced upon them, remaining members Patrick, Andy, and Joe are sent off to find a mutant by the name of Pete Wentz in hopes of saving their friends, and the rest of the mutant population.





	1. introduction.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first fanfiction (that i'm publishing, anyway) so i'm not really sure what i'm doing but i hope you enjoy!
> 
> special thanks to hannah, emberlin, and caity for helping me out with this. ya'll are the real mvps!

“ _In today’s news, another band of mutants have been found and detained on the East side of the city. No injuries have been reported at this time. The chief of police is urging everyone to please turn in any mutants you may come across by calling the number listed on the screen. You will do a service to your country, and humanity. Please remember that these creatures are dangerous and should not roam free. If you have any information on the subject, please call 872-330-2090. Now, to sports._ ”

The TV screen cuts to a man in front of a green screen, a picture of a football and a soccer ball appear behind him as he begins to recite the scores and plays that occurred during some football match that had happened the night before.

At the end of the cafe in a place conveniently squished against a wall and secluded from the main part of the building where the noise became too loud and obnoxious and people flooded in constantly, the brown-eyed man’s blood began to boil. Jaw clenched and fingers tapping harshly on the lit-up screen in his hand he attempted to withdraw the newscaster’s voice from his ears, but to no avail. Droning on and on like a broken record in his cranium-- _please remember that these creatures are dangerous._

It was the same old story they had been telling for years now and it seemed to be more robotic now than it was a warning. More mutants caught, either a few injuries or none. Be cautious; don’t sympathize, yadda yadda. It was rather obvious that they were only counting injuries towards the officers that caught them and not the mutants themselves. And that only served to make him even more angry.

Why was everyone so scared? Mutants, as far as he knew, were still human but with another added gene; something to make them just a little better than a normal homosapien. They were shown to be dangerous and lethal but how much of it was real? Everyone knows TV is fake and reality shows are the opposite of reality. And it made him and a few others question whether the snarling, angry, dangerous people that the media portrayed were as bad as they seemed. Besides, who wouldn’t want cool superpowers like the ones in comic books and movies? There was one mutant that was on the news recently who had the power to talk to animals, and they had made her demonstrate for the cameras. She talked to a four year old Dachshund and had what seemed like a benevolent conversation with it, but he had noticed that particular episode was extremely edited and jumpcutted; almost like a youtube video.

Almost as if they were trying to spin it into something it wasn’t.

Humanity will always be scared of things that aren’t perfect, he thinks. The things that make someone different are to be shamed and cast away in the eyes of society instead of celebrated. And that to him was the real shame.

As his brain whirls, a subtle bubbling noise catches his attention. Soft, brown eyes suddenly glance downwards. In his hand is a coffee cup, and in the cup that once held a perfectly constructed art of a daisy made in creamer, was bubbling up as if it were put on a stove to boil. The bubbles burst rapidly only to be replaced milliseconds later. His mind rushes with a dozen thoughts, but only one sticks out-- _that’s not meant to happen._

Before he can move, or even think of what to do about the extremely confusing anomaly sitting before him, the boiling coffee grows and spills out over the rim and right onto his left hand. He yells and jumps from his seat, expecting it to burn or hurt, but with a jolting shock he realizes he barely even felt it. The heat was gone, and it simply felt as though he had spilled lukewarm water on himself. The entire cafe is looking at him now after the manly yelp that expelled from his mouth echoed throughout the building and the unwanted attention makes his cheeks go warm, but his focus is still fixated on the cup. Coffee is spilled all over the glass table and his chair is backed against another table behind him after being flung back when he stood. It’s no longer boiling or bubbling, the only reminder that it was once even that hot is the steam that rises from both the cup and the liquid strewn on the table. A single digit reaches out in a timid fashion to touch the puddle of brown liquid and is quickly retracted when it has no effect on his skin.

No reaction, no burn.

He panics.

After wiping up the mess with a napkin and throwing everything, including the half-full coffee that cost him $5.99, into the trash he books it out of the cafe and practically runs home.

 

_______________________________________________

The sun has barely risen, leaving the sky a metallic, gray color as one or two rays light up the night into the morning. The wind is calm. It gives a peaceful sense to the Earth as it shakes the leaves scattered upon the ground and calls a good autumn morning to the creatures that begin to awaken.

Morning light is still hard to navigate through, and this is only proven to be worse when the place you’re navigating through is a thick forest.

Patrick’s chest rises and falls heavily as he runs through the growing foliage, following the two men in front of him and attempting to avoid being hit by any hanging branches as he does so. This proves difficult, however, as several tiny tree limbs whip against his face. Even though the speed at which he’s running and the adrenaline and fear that is coursing through his body numbs the pain, he can feel several tiny cuts begin to break and bleed, tasting it in his mouth as he opens and closes his lips to allow more oxygen into starving lungs.

 

“Come on!” yells the redheaded man who took the lead. Unlike the blond in the back he was not breathing heavily, nor did he show any sign of struggling to continue running, which was typical for such a man. He looks back at his companions, but only for a moment. His voice lowers in volume as he adds, “I can hear her.”

Relief floods the other two as the words are spoken, soon reaching the clearing that was all too familiar. Andy speeds over to a collection of large boulders that sit near the edge of a sharp cliff and the two jog over to join him. Normally, there was a large rock in front of the tunnel that served as a makeshift door, but now it was nowhere to be seen, leaving the entrance bare and vulnerable. The three glanced at each other with a knowing look, and the relief they once felt had all but disappeared completely.

“Should I go first?” says Andy, eyes trained on the dark abyss that faced them. “In case anyone is still down there?”

Patrick glances at Andy, and then at the curly-haired brunet to his right to try and gauge a reaction. His expression was very hard to read. He was worried, they knew, but if he had any opinion on Andy’s plan, he didn’t show it.

It was Patrick who answered, “If there is someone down there, will you be able to get out fast enough?”

Andy chuckled softly, as if it were a joke. “Don’t doubt me.”

“I don’t doubt you,’ Patrick frowned. “I just worry about traps. They’re becoming smarter, and harder to escape fro--,”

“You go first. Take a once over of the place and then call us down if the coast is clear. Use your speed to your advantage.”

The two looked at Joe as he spoke for the first time since they received the warning, and before Patrick could protest or say anything in reply, Andy nodded and disappeared down the tunnel at an inhuman speed.

They waited in silence. Joe shoving his hands in the pockets of his ripped jean jacket while Patrick watched him from his peripheral vision. Streams of wind whipped across his face and stung the cuts on his cheeks and chin, and for a moment he could almost believe that he truly felt the chill of the cold; something he missed with his entire being. It was strange how one could feel wistful for something of so little significance. Like when you have a cold and writhe in despair as you remember what it was like to take breathing for granted. Except, a cold could go away. This sickness, would not.

Anxiety grew in the pit of his stomach as the wait turned minutes long. He wrapped his arms around his torso and began to pace around the clearing. As the wind ruffled short blond hair he stared off into the distance with squinted eyes. What if the others had been taken? What if the warning call they had telepathically received meant the worst and wasn’t just an accident like they hoped? What if they had to leave this part of town and find shelter elsewhere? God, he hated doing that. He despised moving. He despised having to pack up and leave when someone found them out. He wanted roots, he wanted security. But it was quite clear that he would never have what he wanted.

As he turned on the heels of his boots to pace the opposite way, Andy’s voice channeled through the tunnel, beckoning the two downstairs.

Joe went first, and then Patrick. Joe waited for the blond to make it down the ladder and onto the ground before continuing down the dark path and into a large room. Normally, it was covered in blankets, rugs, quilts, and other things that made it seem less like a cave and more like a weirdly decorated basement. Lit by candles, matches, and intricately balanced flashlights. There was no furniture, or decor, except for eight mattresses spread out amongst the space. Each one had it’s owners belongings either on it or surrounding it; an attempt to make the space a little more comforting. It wasn’t a home, but it was good enough.

But now, as they glanced around the room with wide eyes and jaws dropping, it looked as though a tornado had ripped through it. The once colorful quilts and tapestries were torn and ruined, trash littered the floor where they stepped and several of the mattresses were torn and turned upside down. Their belongings, some extremely personal, were all smashed to pieces. Patrick was pulled towards one of the mattresses that had been slashed open down the middle, mostly likely to see if and what was stored there, and picked up a tattered blanket. The Cubs’ signature was old and worn, but now it was ripped apart, the only thing holding it together were mere threads. The blanket had been a gift from his sister for his tenth birthday, and he had kept it with him all these years. It was a reminder of home, and of hope. It had been something to cling to. And here it was, practically nothing. He sighed sadly and let it drop back onto the floor.

He glanced around, noting Joe walking back and forth, picking up several polaroid pictures that had been scattered in the chaos like leaves in the wind. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could be formed, Andy called them over into another part of the cave.

The first thing Patrick noticed was the smell. It hit his nostrils like a shovel to the face and his nose wrinkled in disgust. It smelled strongly of sweat and metal, and the connection between those things didn’t hit until he pushed back the curtain separating the rooms and was met with a bloody sight. Literally.

Andy was kneeling on the ground in front of a body, knees sat in a large pool of red substance, and as they tip-toed further they could see the body belonged to Brendon. His signature wayward black hair was slicked back, and he was cradling his side with a shaking hand. Patrick blinked, and mentally noted that he was doing so because of the medium-sized gash in his abdomen. He didn’t look much farther or longer than that. He didn’t want to.

“What happened?” Joe asked, and Patrick wondered the same, though his body had become frozen. His vocal chords went dry and he could barely lift a finger despite wanting to run over and comfort his friend. He couldn’t move. All he could do was stand beside him with an incredulous expression painted on pale features.

“Someone tipped them off,” Brendon spat, angry and shaking. His voice was strong, but trembling. He was fighting off the pain with gritted teeth. “I don’t know who but you know what? I bet it was the dude in the marketplace. I told you idiots that I shouldn’t have talked to him.”

“Where are the others? Nicole, Ryan, Dallon, Spencer. Are they here or--?”

“Gone. We all fought as best as we could but that damn new technology--they got the best of us. Dallon ran his mouth, too, which didn’t help our case.”

Joe chewed the bottom of his lip, head whipping around the area as if hoping, praying that what Brendon said wasn’t true. That it was all just a dumb prank and the other’s would jump out and yell ‘Surprise!’. But a second passed, and that didn’t happen, and all he could see was red. He shook his head and combed a hand through his hair to calm himself.

Stay rational, he reminded himself.

“Were they taken alive?”

“Yeah. Well, I think,” the more Brendon spoke, the softer his voice became, and his breathing turned raspy; wheezing through the words. It was obvious that the blood loss was irreversible, and there was nothing any of them could do to save their friend. “Spencer...he didn’t look good. I don’t know what happened. One of the rookies got me and I had to play dead. When did we turn into dogs? Playing dead? This is so _dumb._ ”

Patrick wasn’t sure when or why he moved, but before he knew it he was kneeling down beside Brendon. He took the raven-haired male’s empty hand, ignoring the blood stains, and squeezed it. Hoping to add a little bit of comfort.

“But…” they stare expectantly as Brendon pauses, coughing up red liquid and spitting it onto the cold ground before continuing. “Nicole said something before they were taken. She had a vision after the fight.”

“What?” Patrick urged quietly. “What did she say?”

Brendon’s brown eyes turned to a soft shade of white, his pupil and iris fading into the hue until they were practically invisible. Nicole and Ryan had always joked that his eyes looked like pools of milk when he used his powers. His mouth opened, but his voice was not his own. It was feminine, and familiar; Nicole’s voice.

“Tell them they need to find someone else. Once they find him, they’ll have what they need to get us out. Tell them that, alright? Promise me you will. Tell them they need to find a man by the name of Pete Wentz. He’s a mutant, too. The four of them will save us--all of us. I saw it.”

The three men look at each other with equal stares as Brendon’s eyes slowly regain their color. They were all asking the same question: who is Pete Wentz, and why was he important?

Their question was never answered, as Brendon stopped responding, and his heartbeat faded to a thin line.  
The morning passed quickly; though none of them felt as though time was really important anymore. The world felt thick and cold, like a bad dream. That’s what it felt like; a bad dream.

Joe recited a quiet prayer, most likely one that pertained to Jewish customs, and Patrick grabbed his tattered blanket. He laid it across the body that laid upon the ground, covering it from view. And the three gathered whatever they could salvage and left.

The group of eight had now been condensed to three. And on the way back through the forest that separated the city from the wilderness, they all silently cried in mourning, for they were truly alone.


	2. The Sign Said Please Don't Tap The Glass (but I read it in reverse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again lovelies!  
> thank you so much for the kudos and comments for this silly mess that came from my mind, I'm so glad ya'll enjoy it!
> 
> I think I'm going to start putting songs that inspired each chapter since I listen to a lot of music while writing and think it would be more ~immersive~. The last chapter was inspired by Natural by Imagine Dragons (as the title suggests) and this chapter is inspired by Sunshine Riptide by Fall Out Boy. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (also, 10 points to whoever catches the hamilton reference.)

  “Did you hear the news? The President said that a few more mutants confessed to planning attacks on the White House. I'm glad they were caught. I wonder what's going to happen at next week's trial; whatever it is--they deserve it.”

 

Pete’s lips pursed impatiently. His attention was focused on the sandwich in front of him, brows furrowing as he worked to tear pieces of swiss cheese apart from each other to place atop the meat. He didn’t answer his co-worker, instead looking up at the clearly uncomfortable customer behind the glass to ask, “Would you like that toasted?”

 

The customer nods and Pete turns away with the sandwich in hand, and he’s thankful for the sixty seconds he receives to himself to finally breathe.

 

That morning in the coffee shop last week had practically changed the young man overnight. After locking himself in the confines of his crappy, one bedroom apartment and being sure to close all windows and curtains in fear of being watched, Pete dug out his old school laptop, too scared to use his phone, and Googled every variant of “I think I’m a mutant?” he could think of. Several pages popped up after hitting enter--a list of numbers and hotlines to call to report mutants or sightings, several websites on how to defend against mutant attacks and what to do in case of an injury. One of the first results he noticed was a WebMD article, and he clicked on it without reading the full title with a twinge of hope that it would give some answers; maybe a list of symptoms to look out for. But once the page loaded, the only helpful information it gave was the advice to see a doctor if you experience ‘unnatural developments in mind, body, or physical appearance.’ He closed the browser after that. If he wasn’t so freaking anxious, he would have laughed at himself for googling it in the first place. Everyone knew Googling symptoms ended in either feeling like death, or being told you're dying. He wished he had received the latter. It would've been easier to deal with. In attempt to divert from another panic attack, he chose instead to focus on writing in an old journal he never really kept up with in college. Pete sat unmoving and rigid at the dimly lit dining room table for a good thirty minutes, then stopped and instead spent twenty more minutes attempting to make a cup of tea, only to return to journalling afterwards.

 

It was sort of a shame that his hands were shaking too much to make out any of the words he wrote, because he was positive some of the lines would do numbers on poetry Tumblr. His neighbor dropped by with her dog to say hi and apologize for the eventual racket that would be coming from her apartment later that night. He smiled and nodded for most of the conversation while mentally hoping she would go away, and deflected any questions about his well being. She seemed unconvinced when his reply to her question of ‘are you okay?’ was answered with a squeaky “Yeah, I'm fine!”

 

“Y'know, I don't like being lied to, Pete. And neither does Mavis. She can smell liars.” she looked to the puppy sitting patiently in the crook of her arm, and the dog sniffed at the air as if she was trying to drive her owner's point home. Pete chuckled softly, his hand moving up to rub at the back of his neck.

 

“Sorry, Mere. But you know how it is. Work, bills, all that. I'm just a little stressed out right now is all.”

 

Meredith didn't seem any more convinced, but any questions she had went unmentioned and Pete was grateful for that. “Whatever. Suit yourself. If you want to stop by sometime tonight, I wouldn't hold a grudge.”

 

“Cool. Thanks for stopping by.”

 

“No problem,” The green-haired female walked backwards a few steps before turning and giving a flippant wave in the male's direction. “See ya’, Wentz.”

 

“Later, Allen.” He shut the door a little too fast.

 

Eventually, he fell asleep on the couch sometime, he thinks, around five AM. Or at least, whenever the sun woke up and Meredith's party guests began to trickle out of the complex. His alarm startled him awake sometime in the late afternoon and even with over eight hours of sleep under his belt, he was still exhausted. And just as terrified. He called into work the next day, and the day after that, justifying the absence by convincing himself he was monitoring his health to see if anything else strange or out of the ordinary happened. And just as his luck would have it, nothing ever did. Which did not help the narrative that he was going Mad Hatter crazy. To which he would say _It's about time._ However, as much as the article teased him daily, he still refused to go see a doctor. Many reasons contributed, like having no money and no insurance, and the idea of being labelled as crazy wasn’t something he was sure he was ready to deal with at this point in life. Not that he wasn’t sure it was true, because he sort of hoped it was rather than the other option he had considered for barely three seconds before having the first of many panic attacks (the irony that this was probably karma for being a low-key sympathizer just mere days ago was not lost on him) but if what had happened had just been an illusion or a trick of the mind; a way of telling himself he was finally losing his marbles, then there was no telling what a doctor would do or say. Best case scenario was the physician would laugh in his face and refer him to a therapist he couldn’t afford to see. And worst? He could be locked up, and not in one of those mental hospitals you hear about and think of the creepy ones from the sixties.

 

No, no, no.

 

There were stories and rumors from family members of people, especially when the Mutant Era really kicked off back in the early nineties, who had falsely reported themselves or someone else as mutants. That they simply disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again no matter what the connection was to their relatives. They were just. . . gone. At first, it was a silly rumor. Something that kids told their friends on the playground to spook them and Pete had been one of those kids telling it (with an extra dramatic flair, as was usual for the eldest Wentz child) when he was little. But now, Pete wasn't so sure if that were true and he wasn't keen on testing It's authenticity. And besides, he was one hundred percent sure that he was a mutant. he told himself, both mentally and out loud when he was alone and the thoughts became too much to handle.

 

The tinny ding of the microwave finishing it’s round jolted Pete out of his stupor and for once he was grateful that he had a job to do to keep his paranoid mind occupied. Taking the sandwich out of the oven and placing it back onto the counter he finished it off with veggies and sauces while the other male working rang the customer up. She quickly gathered her things and sped out of the sandwich shop, and barely seconds after the door swung closed, Pete sighed.

 

“Mikes, can you...not do that?”

 

“Not do what?” Mikey stared at him in confusion, a light brow raising as he ran a hand through gelled back blond hair. He had recently gotten it done after saying he was going to do something crazy in order to get his life together. Pete hadn’t believed him until he came into work the next day with bleached hair and a new tattoo. That was the day he learned never to engage Mikey Way in a dumb bet, because it would most likely end with him doing just that; something dumb. Like jumping off a cliff or driving his car into a lake. And Pete would be stuck having to officiate the funeral.

 

“Not talking about you-know-what in front of customers.”

 

There was a pause. “You mean mutants? What’s wrong with talking about current events?”

 

“There’s nothing w--,” Pete cut himself off with a groan, burying his face in his hands before using them to gesture wildly. “Listen, I hate this place as much as you do, but do you know what happens when we drive away all our customers?”

 

“. . . We get fired?”

 

“Yes! We get fired. And I don’t know about you, but my landlord is two seconds away from kicking my ass onto the street ‘The Nanny’ style if I don’t pay my rent on time again and I know you know that I cannot afford for that to happen. So please, I’m begging you to  _not_ talk about mutants anymore.”

 

“Dude,” Mikey fixes him with an unimpressed stare, glancing down at the green apron they both wore. “We work at Subway, not some independent sandwich shop. I think we’re fine. Besides, if anyone is allowed to talk crap about _those people,_ it's me.”

 

Pete went rigid as the words ‘ _those people_ ’ and the repulsed tone they were spoken in hit him like a ton of bricks. Mikey never talked about what happened to his family, or more importantly, what became of his parents. Pete doubted he ever would speak of the details. All he knew was what his mom told him the night Mikey and his brother, Gerard moved in with their family while they waited for his grandmother to come from New Jersey to Chicago in order to take care of them. She sat him down in the living room and had said in the kindest tone that only a mother could use, “Michael and Gerard's mommy and daddy were taken to heaven after fighting some bad people. And so they're going to have a sleepover with us for a few days. You need to be nice and let them play with you, okay?” Eight-year-old Pete had nodded vigorously, excited only to have his best friend stay over. And for multiple days! It never occured in his innocent little mind until years later that the Way's were killed, and what was worse, they were killed by mutants. He never asked, and Mikey never told.

 

Pete shivered. His fingers suddenly ached and he flexed them to stretch the tired muscles, but the burning sensation never faded. He glanced down at his hands, and for a split second noticed crimson-colored sparks seemed to glint from beneath tan skin like jewels in a mine, glittering and shining for one second and fading to obscurity the next. He immediately closed his hands into a fist and shoved them into his jean pockets. His gaze snapped up to see Mikey staring at him with a concoction of worry and judgement swirling in whiskey-hued eyeballs.

 

“What’s gotten you so uptight, Wentz?” Mikey’s eyes narrowed with an unspoken accusation, watching Pete like a hawk as he spoke. “Ever since last week you’ve been weirdly sensitive about the whole mutant situation, not to mention anxious.”

 

“What makes you think I'm anxious?” It was an innocent question, asked out of curiosity and not of malice. Was he being too obvious?

 

“You're constantly hiding or wringing your hands, you're stuttering more than usual, and all day you've been going into these weird silences every so often. . .Did something happen?”

 

 _Crap,_ Pete thought, _He's onto me._

 

“Huh,” feign ignorance, shake your head, throw in a little thoughtful pout--the formula for lying. “No, I'm fine. I didn't get much sleep last night, maybe that's it.” The brunet walked past the other employee into the main restaurant area, grabbing a spray bottle and cleaning cloth on the way in order to get away from this conversation. Mikey followed, though made no effort himself to do any sort of work as Pete started to scrub down the nearest table.

“This is more than sleep deprivation. Did you run into one?”

“One what?”

“Mutant.”

“I don't think so.”

“Did you see one?”

“Nope.”

“Did someone you know get hurt by one?”

 

Pete becomes more and more upset by the minute. He wishes he could clock Mikey with a solid right hook to shut him up but his rational, Angel On The Shoulder side tells him that would only make matters worse, and then he would definitely be fired for workplace violence. He scrubbed at the surface just a little harder.

 

“One of them hurt you, didn’t it?” Mikey finishes, as if he’s just cracked a code in a case he had been working on. “Is that why you’re so upset?”

 

It feels like he's in a zoo; caged in an environment that's too small for him as people oogle and stare, tapping their friends’ shoulders to get them to come look and the weird guy in the box, too. He felt all too aware of the stares he received, or didn't receive, and the rapid fire questions coming from his friend did nothing to soothe his nerves. “I'm not upset.”

 

“Screw off,” the blond scoffed determindly. “Everyone and their mother can tell something's wrong with you. Why won't you tell me what's up?”

 

“Why is it any of your business?!” Pete finally exploded, his tone a little more harsh and far louder than he had meant it to be. He had twirled around to face the blond and the atmosphere between the two turned cold--quiet and uncomfortable in a matter of seconds as they maintained tense eye contact. Then like a wave returning to sea, Mikey visibly backed down, his once vaguely curious expression turning stone cold, and Pete knew he had screwed up when all he received in reply was a soft nod and the view of the man walking into the back room. The brown-eyed male’s face immediately softened as the anger he felt faltered and faded as quickly as it came. Mikey was normally a quiet guy, no one could deny that, but only in front of anyone else but him. When the two, who had been through thick and thin and barely made it through college together were alone, it was quite a different story. Silence was unusual, and Pete didn't like it when Mikey was quiet in front of him. He wanted to call the other back into the room in order to apologize, but when he opened his mouth the words refused to come out, and all he could do was stand there helplessly. He mumbled a string of curse words under his breath and told himself whatever was going on, he needed to get it sorted before he turned away everyone he knew because of it. The stress was too much, and he was truly suffering.

 

Crystalline eyes move downwards towards his open palms, and his breathing hitched in his throat as he noticed the glimmering flickers of red, orange, and blue returned once again. The colors bled and danced across his skin like a fireworks show, disappearing and reappearing rapidly. Entranced by the display, Pete tilted his hands in every direction, watching as the flickers bounced. His trembling fingers slowly but surely calmed. But they quickly started to shake once more when a particular flicker suddenly grew into a flame, barely an inch high but still tall enough to make the man jump. He closed his palm with enough tension that tan knuckles turned stark white and practically launched the cleaning supplies back into their place.

 

Pete barely had time to compose himself before the ring of the bell above the front door signified another customer had walked inside. “Welcome to Subway.” he called out instinctively, but his voice didn't carry very far as anxiety crawled and tore through his vocal chords. He turned in order to serve whomever walked in but instead was greeted by the sight of three men standing in a circle, whispering to each other with hushed but frantic tones. They looked around his age, and were hardly any taller than him, too. The one closest to him was speaking, his mouth moving rapidly but the words were inaudible. His hair was as dark as pure cacao, natural curls spilling over his cranium like a bushy halo. His eyes were a striking blue and full of a passion that made Pete curious as to what he was saying. The one next to him was listening intently, and as Pete's eyes drifted to the redheaded man he instantly felt something akin to a punch in his chest. Something about him seemed dangerous and intimidating, but he couldn't pinpoint what. He was wearing a hoodie and shorts, and maybe that's what caught the sandwich artist off guard--who wore shorts in Chicago in November!? He finally glanced to the last man, who's back was facing him to where it was hard to see particular details. He could tell he had unnaturally blond hair, almost a whitish color, and he wondered how the guy managed such a good bleach job. It was so unlike Mikey's yellow-toned hairdo, and he almost liked the stranger's better. But he also wore a simple burgundy sweater and dark-wash jeans, boots and what looked like thick-rimmed glasses. In fact, he noted with blinking eyes, that none of them looked or dressed particularly cozy, which was incredibly strange.

 

Like a fish on a hook, Pete was pulled towards them and he wanted to walk over and start a conversation simply to be able to see the blond guy's face and ask who they were. He was curious, greatly so, and just as he was about to clear his throat to garner their attention, the curly-haired man side-eyed the employee and said something inaudible. The two others turned to look at him, and Pete was frozen in place like a deer in headlights. But he could finally see the blond dude's face, and almost fainted. He was beautiful, to put it lightly. His eyes weren't as blue as the curly-haired dude, but were just as bright and beautiful. Gold and green flecks mixed with cerulean beneath glasses frames and were literally breathtaking. His skin was pale and delicate and if he weren't sure the man was real he would have thought he was a porcelain doll. His cheekbones were prominent, with full lips. Although, as beautiful as they were, he noticed that they were tinged slightly blue beneath the pink undertone, like he was fighting frostbite. Which, he probably was considering what he was wearing was hardly warm enough. But nothing about his body language indicated that he was vexed by the chill.

 

Pete's distraction was broken by the sound of the bell above the door again. He looked to see who had walked in and the three strangers did the same. An older man dressed in a windbreaker and sweats with thin brown hair that looked like a poorly made wig walked inside. His expression was angry, eyes blazing with a fury as he scanned the area and landed on the three strangers. They locked eyes, and Pete watched from behind the counter like a standerby at a fight.

 

The man shouted at the group of three who immediately took a few steps back upon his entry. He followed suit, accusatory digit pointed in their direction. “You dirty little freaks! How you try to touch my children!?”

 

“Dude,” Curly spoke up, hands up in surrender. “We were just helping them. Your daughter fell, it wasn't our fault she doesn't know how to walk in snow!”

 

“Don't insult me!” he roared before the man could finish his sentence. “I have half a mind to report you to authorities and get all of you thrown in jail!”

 

The blond stepped forward, throwing an arm against Joe's chest to tell him to back away. He laughed diplomatically. “This is all just a misunderstanding, sir. We had no intention of harming your children and would appreciate if you would stop following us. We were simply trying to be good Samaritans, as you can understand. Nothing but good intentions here.”

 

The angry man stepped forward with a vengeance that scared even Pete, but the blond, along with Curly and Scary stood their ground against his menacing glare. “Are you telling me what to do?”

 

“No sir.” the blond responded, his gaze hard as a rock. Though he didn't glare or show any ounce of fear in his magnificent eyes and Pete was very surprised by how eloquent this guy was. “I'm simply asking you to stop stalking us and leave us alone. We've done nothing wrong and I have as much a right to call the police on you as you do on me.”

 

“Oh, yeah? You have no rights. I know what you are. You think you're so slick you can blend in anywhere but I can smell your stench, I know you're all mutants. If you call the police, I won't be touched because they'll be too busy throwing your disgusting bodies in jail!” With each syllable uttered, the man took a small step forward. The three took several steps back, eventually stuck between a booth and the angry citizen. Pete held in a breath, unsure what to do in this situation. Should he speak up, stop the fight, ask one of them to leave? As his thoughts spiraled through his cranium, the man continued to yell profanities and insults, slurs and accusations against the three that were so disgusting it made him want to throw up. He didn't know how the three were handling it so well, doing nothing but flinching and remaining quietly calm.

 

Enough was enough. Pete cleared his throat and prepared to ask the man to leave, but the gesture was drowned out by the yelling. He attempted again, louder this time, but went ignored by everyone except for the blond man, who looked at him. His irises swam with fear pooling, begging for help as blue eyes stared into brown ones. It was only a second, but it felt like an eternity. And even that felt too short of a time to Pete. He would stare at this guy forever if he could.

 

But there was a job to do.

 

“Excuse me,” he rounded the counter and approached the scene carefully so as not to start a fight. The man turned to him with an expression that read _why are you interrupting me?_

 

The sandwich artist stood as tall as possible, straightening his terrible posture and rearing his shoulders to look as authoritative as one could be standing at his height. “I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“What?” The man spat incredulously, his eyebrows furrowed so much it looked like he was sporting a unibrow.

 

“I need you to get out, dude. You're causing a scene.”

 

“ _I'm_ causing a scene?” He glanced between Pete and the three other men and Pete could feel his blood begin to boil in his veins. His hands began to tremble again, but not out of fear. “I'm not the one who's a freak of nature and damaging the entire human race. They are! If anyone should leave, it should be them! And it should be in a body bag, at that.”

 

“ _Sir_!” Pete's voiced raised in volume, his patience wearing as thin as a worn sheet. “Your language is crap. If you're going to be prejudice, take it outside, please. I'm asking you nicely to leave.”

 

“And what'll you do if I don't leave, huh? What authority do you have?”

 

“I'll call 911 and get you arrested.”

 

“Go ahead and call ‘em,” the man shrugged. “I don't care. I won't be the one in trouble, anyway. I'll tell them they--” he pointed towards the others, who simply glared in return. “--assaulted me and used their magic on me. And maybe I'll throw you into the mix; I can get some good money out of this.”

 

“You won't be getting anything out of this except a fatass fine for harassment.” Pete spat out. He lifted his arm past the man and pointed towards the door. His eyes burned with a fire that rivaled the man's own. “I'm not gonna ask again. Final warning, out.”

 

For a millisecond, the man seemed to consider backing down. They could see the clocks and wheels spinning behind his eyes but it was unfortunately short-lived. Pete wasn't surprised, his one brain cell probably got tired.

 

“No. I'm not going to sympathize with mutants. I'm an American citizen and I'll stand up for my rights! Ever heard of freedom of speech?”

 

“Freedom of speech isn't going to stop anyone from fighting back.”

 

“Don't tell me what my rights are.”

 

“Don't yell at my customers.”

 

“You should stay out of this, son.”

 

“Don't call me son.” Pete growled.

 

“I'll call you whatever I like.” the man backed away and for a moment of time Pete assumed he was finally complying. He seemed to teeter, in between turning away and staying put. Pete breathed heavily, waiting for him to do the right thing. _Please do the right thing._

 

The man twisted back unexpectedly and struck Pete right in the jaw.

 

Pete stumbled back from the force that slammed into him, nearly knocking over the blond behind him who thankfully caught him just in time. They shared a glance, and the look was like fuel to the fire; dousing his body in gasoline and striking a match. His skin burned, every ounce of himself aching with rage at this man and everything he stood for. He couldn't believe someone so repulsive and awful even prospered on this planet, on _his_ planet. Pete looked him in the eye as he placed a hand on his jaw, groaning from the pain that burst through his face. The man had a smug look written across his mousy features and it only served to heighten his anger.

 

“I really wish you hadn't done that.”

 

Pete regained his balance, no longer leaning against the stranger, and raised a fist, returning the man's punch tenfold. He yelped, staggering backwards. It didn't take long for him to recover, and he was charging once again. Pete could barely register what he was doing before his body took over and he raised an arm, palm flat facing the opponent. He felt like he was on autopilot or astral projecting, watching from the side as his body moved for him. Everything was moving in slow motion, only to speed back up right as a flame appeared in the center of his palm, growing quicker. The man's eyes widened and he tried to stop, but the momentum kept him from doing so, and eventually landed him right in the way of the fire.

 

The flame caught on the material of the shirt he was wearing and he screamed in pain as it licked his skin. Pete, who was still in position, merely stood and watched in disbelief. He had done that?

 

The world seemed to spin beneath his feet like one of those teacup rides at amusement parks. His face blanched, losing practically all color as the sound of the man screaming filled his head. He could only watch in horror as the blond stepped forward and rose a hand to the man's chest. Something white spilled from his fingertips and extinguished the flame. What he was not expecting was for the blond man's arm to shift from a pale, pinkish white to an icy blue. The change in color shifted up his exposed forearm and consumed his fingertips like a spreading disease. He was also not expecting him to punch the man with said hand and knock him out cold. The man fell to the floor in a pathetic heap. The blond turned to Pete and the others, nodding once.

 

“Joe,” he spoke, looking at the curly-haired man who seemed as surprised as Pete felt. “The security cameras.”

 

“On it.” Joe, he guessed his name was, returned a nod and walked over to the camera planted in the ceiling. He grabbed a chair and stepped upon it to reach the tiny ball. His fingers lightly brushed it, and it began to spark wildly. Pete watched with wide eyes as he worked, unsure of what he was doing. Was he erasing footage?

 

“Hey, you there?” Pete shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned to the person who was speaking. It was the blond guy again, staring at him with an expected expression. He seemed concerned, and it was sort of endearing in a  _someone cares about me, that's strange_ kind of way.

 

“Uh, y--yeah,” Pete stuttered. God, why was he so awkward?

 

“Thanks, for uh, helping out. I've never met another elemental before. Are you okay?” He gestured to Pete's jaw, and there was no doubt in his mind that an ugly bruise was beginning to form already.

 

“Yeah, I'm good. I can take a punch.” Pete looked to the man on the floor before returning his attention to the pretty guy. “What did you do to him?”

 

He seemed confused, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side as if to ask a question. “I knocked him out.”

“That's not--okay.”

He shook his head as Joe suddenly called out, “We're all good!”

 

He jumped down from the chair with a bounce in his step, returning to where the other three men stood. He clapped his hands together as if clearing them of dirt and grime. “Now, it'll look like the tape went bad, if they check--”

 

The redheaded scary man interrupted, “When they check.”

 

“Whatever. If, when, anyway--they won't suspect a thing. Or, they won't be able to prove a thing.”

 

His two companions nodded in satisfaction. They all looked around to survey the damage, eventually landing on the passed out guy. Joe placed both hands on his hips, sucking on his teeth as he asked the question most of them were already thinking. “What're we going to do with him?”

 

“I'll take him outside,” the redhead said. “It'll look like he just passed out, and hopefully he won't remember what happened. Patrick hit him pretty hard.”

 

Patrick (Was it Patrick? His mind was so messed up.) shrugged sheepishly. “I didn't know what else to do. It seemed like the best option.”

 

“You did fine, Patrick.” Joe replied in a comforting manner and it seemed to help calm the blond down a bit. He turned to Pete as the redhead moved to pick up the unconscious man. Leaving nothing but a gust of wind in his place, they were both gone, leaving the three alone in the restaurant.

 

Pete stared at the swinging door. “. . .What the hell?”

 

“You get used to it,” Patrick lazily waved his bewilderment away and it was obvious this was a normal occurrence for him. For Pete, it was not. “Seriously though, thanks for saving our skin.”

 

“Yeah,” Joe joined in, a goofy smile playing on his lips like this whole situation had been a fun experience. “You were a big help. It's not often you run into other mutants who don't mind helping out.” “I--,” Pete stuttered, hearing the words in his mind but finding himself unable to say them. _I'm not a mutant!_

 

“What's your name, dude?”

 

He was about to answer when another gust of wind blew his hair back, and suddenly the missing member of the three was back and standing right next to Joe. Joe didn't flinch, instead turning to him to give a little welcome back wave. The redhead returned the wave along with the tiniest of smiles, and for a second he didn't look so scary.

 

This was a dream. This _had_  to be a nightmare. There was no way that any of this actually went down in real life. He wasn't a mutant, these guys weren't real, and he knew for certain that Patrick was a figment of his lonely and affection starved imagination. There was no way someone was attractive anyway. And Pete  _laughed_. This was going to be an awesome story to tell Mikey when he actually woke up.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I just--” he spoke through bouts of deranged giggles, covering his mouth with a hand to help compose himself. Joe and Patrick shared a look, but he didn't notice. “What did you say?”

 

“I asked what your name was. Are you…okay? Should we call someone--?”

 

“I'm great,” Pete grinned like a madman. Which he was. No doubt about it. “My name's Peter, but my friends call me Pete.”

 

The three stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers. Their reactions sobered him instantly and his grin faltered. Did he say something wrong?

"Do you think--?" The redhead started, eyeballs moving between Patrick and Joe, who were still staring at Pete like he had just grown another head. At this point, that wouldn't surprise him. Might as well go big or go home, right?

"No,  _nonono,_ it can't be." Joe replied with a shake of his head, though he didn't seem convinced by his own words. "There's plenty of Petes in Chicago. . . right?"

 

“What's your last name?” Patrick questioned.

 

“Wentz. Why?”

 

“You're kidding.” Joe breathed out, as if some sort of epiphany crossed his mind. Patrick stared at him and his reaction was what worried Pete the most. He seemed almost scared, just like he had before the fight. But it was different now. And he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

 

“I'm not kidding? I can show you my ID if you want.”

 

“I can't believe it. Guys!” Joe punched the man standing beside him excitedly “We found him!”

 

“Finally.” the redhead smiled.

 

Pete blinked, brows furrowing. He wanted out now. It would be a great time to wake up! _Please wake up or I'm gonna start crying! And that won't be fun!_

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“We've been looking for you!”

 

“For me? Why!?”

 

Before anyone could answer, a voice was heard behind them. They all turned to see Mikey standing at the entrance of the back room, one earbud in and the other held in his hand. He looked at the four men with a wary stare. “What the hell is going on?”

 

Pete gulped.


End file.
